Cracking
by Thefreakoutsideyourwindow
Summary: He can hear him cracking his neck. Noctis knows Prompto has never been a heavy sleeper, never has been, and never will. Outside the tent, something is shifting.


**A/N: **"It wasn't supposed to be this long." I whisper to myself in abject horror.

Anyone else feel like summer time is the perfect time for horror? I love fall, but long days and bright nights make everyone feel safe, and boy is that the perfect time to capitalise on scary stories.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

He can hear him cracking his neck.

Noctis knows Prompto has never been a heavy sleeper, never has been, and never will. Countless nights of squirming and sleep shuffle had all too often led to him being placed beside Gladio, the heaving sleeping wall of muscle that he is, and then everyone can have a solid night's sleep without having to inadvertently glare at Prompto for all of the following morning. This time, though, they've switched it up. They'd collapsed into the tent after a rough hunt, forgoing their usual nightly routines in favour of sleeping and sorting out food and cleaning for the morning, Ignis as exhausted as the rest of them and therefore unable to complain. Prompto lies sandwiched between Noctis on his left, with Gladio and Ignis on his right.

There's the gentle swish of nylon and polyester sleeping bags rising and falling with each gentle breath, the quiet concerto of crickets chirping and the dimming embers of fire crackling falling short of piercing the lull that has descended upon the tent. Runes of the haven cast a further gentle cyan glow upon the tepid night's surroundings, standing out all the more with the lack of the moon and stars, ushered away by blue gray clouds. Noctis holds Prompto's bare left wrist in a delicate grasp, feeling the pulse steady beneath his thumb as he stares outside the crack of the tent, running his thumb against the skin as if to confirm he's still there, still solid.

Outside, Prompto is cracking his neck.

Though his body lies still, his mind races a mile a minute, heart beat beginning to thunder in his ribcage as he forces his breath to quiet, _quieter __**dammit**_ as dread builds in his core, the very marrow of him that the minute he moves, the second anything so much as changes, the thing pretending to be Prompto outside will pounce upon him and – and he doesn't know what'll happen at that stage, but he can't bring himself to think past _Prompto_ and _wrist_ and _outside_ and _crack_.

The light of the haven slides across the thing's pale freckled skin and over the golden locks of its hair. On the odd turn, the skin of its cheeks seem stretched, as if its jaw is hanging loosely, gaping and dislocated. Its head moves slowly, rolling over its shoulder to its back and then the other shoulder, gaze firmly affixed to the starless, cloudy night sky above, clicking and cracking all the while. Its movements are not fluid, rolling languidly and then snapping back in the next, the grotesque **crunch** and grind of its bones making Noctis's stomach churn and tongue feel heavy.

None of the others have awoken, almost death like in their sleep as Noctis begins to feel his eyes burn, tracking the strange movements of the thing that is wearing his friend's skin. But he knows, even as sweat forms and rolls down his brow, as he sucks in air through his nose and forces it out slower and quieter, as his muscles tense to near the point of cramping, that he will have to confront this thing, this...evil. That he cannot leave it unfettered with his brothers lying vulnerable.

Because if it can get onto the haven, then what's to stop it from getting into the tent?

Forcing his thumb to still in its movements, he releases Prompto's wrist from his grasp, and Prompto gives a sleepy huff in response. Fear clenches his muscles, and Noctis's eyes remain firmly on the target in front.

Still cracking. No reaction.

Good.

Repressing a sigh of relief, Noctis thanks his lucky stars that whilst he is a blanket hog most of the time, the humid air is something he cannot stand and so he had thrown the covers off in his sleep, the swishing in even tempo with the others' breaths. _The less noise,_ he thinks, _the better_. Steeling his resolve, Noctis bites his tongue as he peels himself off of the tent's floor into a sitting position, his gray nightshirt preventing any sticking.

Outside, the figure sways, as if caught in a melody. Its neck swings around and crunches like pebbles in sand.

Gradually, inch by inch, Noctis brings himself to a crouch, hands poised beside him as he measures his breaths evenly. The glimmer of a dagger half covered by cloth at the front of the tent catches his eye, a blade always left for emergencies lest use of the armiger be compromised, or that it would put someone at risk. Given their proximity, Noctis veto's for the dagger.

_Come on_ he thinks, leaning on his left palm and reaching his right hand outward towards where he can see it in his periphery whilst keeping his eyes locked onto not Prompto ahead. He pauses as he reaches the dagger, near Ignis's feet, hesitant in his actions. His hand hovers above Ignis's leg, he who was always his first point of call after his father no longer could be, and he hesitates.

Cracking ahead, erratic in its sway yet still near silent.

Noctis grabs the dagger.

"Ah!" Noctis gasps as he instinctively lowers his head, nearly dropping the weapon but forcing himself to grip onto it. The salient assistant bites into his palm, drawing blood that he cannot see but that he can hear dripping onto the sheets, having grabbed it without looking. He breathes through the sting of the pain, shifting the dagger into the palm of his hand as he does so and smiling slightly to himself in spite of his earlier slip up. Pausing, Noctis frowns at the feeling of displacement. Crickets chirp in the distance, the dying embers of the fire crackle and pop, and the sleeping bags swish and sigh with the occupants' movements. There is an absence.

Rapidly snapping his neck up, Noctis looks ahead at the thing in front of him. Silent. Still.

He feels his breath leave him in such a rush that makes him feel dizzy, and his mouth goes dry. Its head is stuck at an awkward angle, just a bit off centre to the right, as if listening in to a funny conversation and waiting to engage with a comeback in an eerily familiar way. It even slouches slightly to the side, favouring its right as it gazes ahead into the unknown distance, and Noctis reminds himself, even with every wisp of hair, each piece of patchwork on its clothing, the bitten down nails on its fingers, the small scar on its upper left arm (a remnant from early Crownsguard training) that the thing in front of him is not Prompto.

Yet even as he convinces himself, as he quiets his breathing and feels the dagger grow slippery in his palm, his eyes itch to roam elsewhere as the hair on the back of his neck pricks. He hears a body in the back, shifting amongst the covers, and he feels his breathing quicken against his will. Daemons cannot come onto havens, and monsters steer clear of them as a general rule, but this _thing_ that is wearing his friend's skin, that has made it this far... What is to say that it hasn't already gotten further?

Against his better judgement, Noctis tears his gaze away from the creature in front of him and looks back into the tent. They lie there, his brothers, real and solid and comfortable in their sleep as they always have been. Prompt has curled up onto his right side next to Gladio with Noctis's absence, arms crossing his middle. Ignis sleeps like the perfect poised soldier, on his back with arms straight by his sides whilst Gladio pulls a starfish pose in stark comparison. Noctis has to stop a huff of amusement from escaping himself, the momentary peace harried away with the confirmation that his brothers are safe as he looks back towards the front of the tent.

Its head has moved.

Not much, not by a long shot. But its head has tilted more to the left now, as if trying to reach over its shoulder to overhear anything moving, but not enough for Noctis to see its face. The fire has gone out completely now, the dim glow of the haven the only source of light, something that was once comforting now leaving everything in a sickly, washed out and removed tone.

He feels his breath still, white noising ringing through his head as he grips the dagger tighter, blood now having gone sticky in his hand. He forcibly stills the shaking in his hands and does his best to stop his knees from knocking together as he takes his first step out of the tent and onto the gravel, barefoot.

Silence.

Noctis breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, breaths once trembling now steadying as he brings his body into position. He brings himself from crouching to standing, fighting against the oppressive atmosphere that threatens to bow him. Both feet out the tent, now.

Freezing from the close distance, Noctis's mind wars between moving forward slowly or approaching in a warp from behind. He notices now that he is closer that the thing's chest, _that's Prompto's jacket that's __**his**_ his mind screams, that it isn't moving, isn't breathing. That there is movement where there should not be and lack of it where there should. Courage tries to flee him now that he is closer, now that this thing is truly tangible and not a passing shadow pigmented by imagination outside of their tent.

His body makes the decision for him.

The crunch of the gravel beneath his foot shifting throws any plans, any objections right out of the window. _Fuck it_, Noctis thinks, bravado and the constant strain of fear having worn him thin. He rushes the thing that wears Prompto's skin, and it reacts to his movement, his sound. It turns and it-

Its fa-ac-

_**ITS FA-**_

They do not hear Noctis when he gasps, nor when he screams, nor when the screams stop.

They do not wake at all.

…

"Rise and shine, princess!" Gladio bellows into the tent, laughing as he sees Noctis shimmy in his sleeping bag in response, and goes to fetch himself a mug of coffee.

Sunlight streaks across the early morning sky painting it a bleeding blossom pink. Larks swoop past the watering hole nearby, their cries the song of morning nature. Ignis hums quietly to himself as he prepares the eggs and ham for breakfast, relishing the cool and morning dew collecting on the dry grass nearby, the only momentary reprieve for the scorching day to come. Prompto sits cross legged on the ground, cleaning and re-cleaning his gun before going to fiddle with his camera.

With languid movements, Noctis makes his way out of the relative darkness of the tent, raising his left hand in front of his face, glazed and unfocussed eyes squinting in the force of morning sunlight.

Prompto takes one look at him, and bursts into laughter, "Dude! I thought my bedhead was bad but holy cow!" He takes a quick shot of Noctis, who flinches slightly from the flash of the camera, and giggles in delight at the results, "Buddy, this may take a little bit more than your normal amount of hair gel to fix."

Gladio and Ignis look over and break into quieter laughter themselves, Gladio walking up to Noctis and putting him into a headlock that he doesn't resist, "What's a little noogie gonna do to that bedhead?" He jokes, and then seems to hesitate when Noctis doesn't rise up to the challenge like expected.

"Noctis, are you feeling quite alright?" Ignis asks, concern touching his tone as he takes in Noctis's dishevelled look, his glazed eyes and pale complexion.

Gladio seems to pick up on the change in Noctis as well, "Yeah, and you're a bit cold to the touch, too." He comments, releasing him from the headlock and placing the back of his hand to Noctis's cheek.

It feels like an age before he responds, as if he is disoriented, voice raspy beyond ordinary use, "Jus' slept bad, s'all."

Ignis frowns as Gladio grunts, guiding Noctis over to one of the camp chairs. "It will do you no good to remain unwell, in any case." Ignis argues, as he goes to retrieve Noctis's painkillers for when his back keeps him up throughout the night. "Perhaps we should take it easier for the day. We did rather push ourselves yesterday after all."

"Hear hear to that!" Prompto exclaims from the back, slipping into the tent and returning with Noctis's phone. "Figured we could start our vacay-day with a simple round of king's knight!" he says, as he hands the phone over to Noctis, who raises his right hand. Prompto freezes.

"Uh dude, when were you gonna tell Ignis that you royally slashed you hand?" He asks, voice increasing incrementally in pitch as he surveys the mangled flesh and crusted blood that covers the majority of the hand – _how had we not noticed that?_ Prompto thinks, placing Noct's phone down on his lap instead.

Ignis and Gladio share a look over his head, and Gladio moves to grab the first aid kit. Instead of looking apologetic and remorseful at making them worry, he instead had a blank look on his face as he stares at his hand, as if he doesn't even realised it was damaged in the first place.

Eventually, he mumbles, "Sorry – didn't really realise." and it is then they know that they will be spending the whole day at camp, lest Noctis disassociate himself into oblivion.

The tension builds as Gladio cleans Noctis's wound silently, Ignis going to prepare tea with Noctis's medication to prevent any further suffering. Prompto can feel himself cracking under the tension, and blurts out, "Y'know, Noct, if you're having this much trouble remembering something basic, I don't know how the hell you'll remember your actual wedding date."

There is a moment of silence, far more awkward than the last, before Noctis's eyes move to the chocobo charm on his camera and he laughs, breaking a small smile, "Probably with as much trouble as you'll have remembering you're not really a chocobo."

Prompto feels the tension melt out of him as he laughs and mockingly places a hand over his heart, "A guy can pretend! My hair is close enough I'm practically one of them!"

Gladio decides to take the opportunity for what it is, and ruffles Prompto's hair, wilfully ignorant to his indignant shouts of protest. Ignis returns with the tea, a small smile upon his lips as he joins in with taunting Prompto, "I suppose you'll be more than happy with just gysahl greens every dinner as well then, Prompto?"

Prompto splutters in response before looking to Noctis, who simply shrugs, and then throws his hands up in the air in dramatic defeat.

Ignis sits beside Noctis and hands him the mug of tea, being wary to pass it to his good hand instead of the damaged dominant right. He ignores Gladio's comment to Prompto of 'Only one princess allowed in the group, shortcake' with a repressed laugh and forces himself to look at Noctis, pressing importance and forcing himself to be stern.

"Now, drink this up first and then we'll have breakfast whilst lecturing you on the merits of letting others know when you're actually injured, instead of just worn out, alright Highness?"

And Noctis looks at him, gaze worryingly blank for another moment before his eyes settle on his glasses, a spark of desperate recognition blazing within them before he closes them and cracks a small smile, "Sure thing, specs."

Ignis nods, satisfied with the response, and stands to continue making breakfast.

"Woohoo, king's knight time!" Prompto exclaims, powering up his phone.

"Tea and breakfast first." Ignis warns, impervious to Prompto's whines and Gladio's chortle.

"Aye aye captain." Noctis says, taking a sip of his tea and straightening up in his chair. After breakfast, Noctis plays king's knight for far too long with Prompto, and then helps pack away camp with the others before they make leave for Lestallum, Ignis opting for a hotel bed per Noctis's condition, their chatter like the buzz of flies that he has had to adapt to quickly.

He takes one last look from the outcrop, eyeing the black car parked by the road below, sets his eyes on the horizon ahead...

and cracks his neck.


End file.
